


A While Since

by Graziana



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anne Lister failing at smoking, Cinnamon Roll Ann Walker (1803-1854), Did I mention the blue shirt?, Episode Tag s01e03 Oh Is That What You Call It?, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, No not that kind of Lodging House, Not a brothel, Now with added plot, Optimism, Sass, Ten Years Earlier, The One Where Ann Works, The One Where Anne goes to the Lodging House, Younger Anne Lister, fluff with a plot now, her hair loose, sex in the cellar, the blue shirt, the blue shirt and loose hair, the pub, the smoke - Freeform, younger softer Anne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:54:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graziana/pseuds/Graziana
Summary: "She used to come in at all hours. I found her once at a lodging house in Halifax at three in the morning - playing cards - with a bunch of reprobates from the 33rd.""Good Lord. That was a while since."Or;The One where Ann Walker Works at the Lodging House





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

_1822_

She hadn’t anticipated the protracted nature of the evening, but Anne Lister was quite relieved to be away from home for an hour or five. The descent of Marian’s petty little Halifax friends upon Shibden for afternoon tea had been an unwelcome surprise, and had all but ensured Anne’s quick departure from the residence with a haste hitherto unseen of a Lister in quite some time. A drink with the young lieutenants and officer-cadets had been quite in order for just a moment of relaxation.

Smoke was thick in the air and the warmth pressed down comfortably, so it was easy to sink into the moment as it leaked into the next moment and the next and the next.

“Lister, you devil!” Wilson declares from beside her, his voice mixes with a cacophony of other jeers and taunts to the same effect. In the same breath he reaches into his pack and offers her a cigarillo. The table rattles as the men around her thump on the surface good naturedly, another hand won by her.

She was not, by habit, a smoker, but with her sleeves rolled up to her elbow and the small pile of shillings amassing before her, and the warm brandy coursing through her - and, of course, the prospect of the next brandy to come - she found she was weak to the lure of joining the men for a smoke.

Nichols, sitting across from her, starts to shuffle the pack again. She leans towards Wilson who is holding up a lit match to her, watching the flames licking up the short match, dancing closer to his fingers. The sound of shillings being thrown across the table and landing with a satisfying thunk in her general vicinity brings a smile to her lips.

A hand sets down another glass in front of her and she utters a brief thanks around the cigarillo pressed between her lips tightly. The men snarl and jape at each other in good humour across the table; she is one of them now, she might almost be mistaken for part of their regiment were it not for the blouse that distinguished her so thoroughly from the red coats.

She reaches back to loosen her hair a mite more. The sharp pull of the pins continue to scratch and pull and remind her of her own state.

Words dance on the tip of her tongue, part in jest and part in all seriousness. She considers the risk of asking the table whether any of them had any eligible sisters, and then she laughs out loud to herself at the ridiculousness of such a notion. The sound is swept away by the general hubbub. The brandy has gone to her head, so she picks up the glass and drinks more.

She inhales deeply, smoke filling her.

The men continue around her. Cards skim across the surface - face down - though she pays them no mind even as they come to rest in front of her.

The flicker of the candles slow to a tempo reminiscent of wading through molasses. Anne can’t hear anything being said anymore, all she can do is watch.

A young woman, blonde and perfect, has caught her eye. She’s moving with quiet efficiency around the tavern, clearing empty cups and bottles from the tables. Occasionally she reaches across the assembled drinking men to wipe down a table. She bats wandering hands away with a smile and not a little ferocity.

Anne wonders how she had not noticed her before. She was the only other woman in the entire establishment she would wager, but that was not what made her exceptional.

There was soot on the side of her nose, and dirty pink ribbons tangled in a long loose french braid that twists down her back. Perhaps, in another life, she would have been noble, she certainly was handsome enough for such a station.

Anne breathes out, the taste of smoke pushing up and out of her lungs. She wets her lips slightly.

The woman leaves her line of sight, walking behind a group of men standing, and Anne aches at the loss. Her eyes attempt to follow her trajectory, and land on an empty spot on the other side of the standing cluster, anticipating her re-emergence, though Anne’s gaze had been too quick and the girl re-appears some seconds later than Anne reckons that she should have. She smiles and laughs with the men, trading barbs and spitting witticisms with a smile that looks stretched thin.

Her men shouting at Anne’s table demand her attention. She acquiesces, playing the hand with aplomb and little care. Jones beats them all and she is one of those who shouts and bangs at the table in a jovial display of dismay at the youngest and greenest of the bunch daring to snatch a small victory from his elders.

Her focus is torn as the cards begin their journey to the dealer again. She pushes herself up from the table, and makes some sort of comment, her fingers deftly flick a penny from her pile towards Jones with a flourish. She thinks that she might offer to get a round in for the table, though she barely listens to the orders that fly at her. The lot of them will have beer and they’ll be happy with it.

She needs to find that woman - the girl really - before she slips through Anne’s fingers. The thought alone starts to drive her quite mad.

She needn’t worry, and she need not look far. She’s there behind the bar. The other patrons gathered near the bar are docile by this hour, and prove to be no barrier to Anne’s journey.

“Ann Walker.” The name comes out in clipped, feminine voice - the accent is too high to come from one who really belongs behind the bar of a tavern in Halifax. A hand is placed in front of Anne, she assumes to shake, but the warm smoke-spiced night conjures other things she might do. The pale skin of the arm begs to be kissed. Her silence must stretch too long for the woman speaks again. “You were staring. I assumed you were after a name, Miss..?”

Anne takes the hand and shakes, she can’t help the brandy as it moves her thumb in small circles on the back of the smooth hand that she doesn’t wish to release. “Anne Lister.”

It’s an abrupt introduction. Rude even, most would consider it. It suits Anne just as well.

“You are young to be working here alone, Miss Walker.” Anne tries by way of a question, perhaps. She chews at the end of the cigarillo lightly as it is pressed between the lips at the corner of her mouth.

“And you, Miss Lister, are certainly too unaccompanied and to much of a lady to be here in a proper social capacity."

Anne quirks a smile, and lifts the lit cigarillo and gestures with it in hand, the tiny amber eye swirling in the air - “Touche. Though I tend not to set much store by doing things properly

” She takes one final drag and then stubs it out on a plate that held the remnants of someone’s dinner - the stalks of tomatoes and a thick rind of cheese.

She chokes on the smoke suddenly. Any attempt to appear suave flies from her in an instant, and though the coughing only continues for a few moments, it is enough to mortify her. The high laugh that emanates from Miss Walker makes it entirely worth it.

The candlelight beckons forth from rosy skin. Ann looks soft and warm, as if her skin would smell and taste the same way that the lodging house made Anne feel.

“You don’t deny it then?” Anne asks.

“Deny what?”

“That you are working here alone. Is it your establishment?”

“Heavens no. Flattering of you to think I have the know-how to run a place like this," she pauses a moment and presses her lips together in amusement “perhaps insulting that you think I have utilised unsavory means to secure a premises and the means to run a successful business? Either way. Not my lodging house-”

“Flattery.” Anne interrupts. “Let’s go for flattery, it’s a much nicer colour on me.”

“Oh I don’t know Miss, I think that blue suits you quite well, whether you where flattering

insulting me.-” Anne wonders whether she might not be pursuing a completely lost cause. “-Anyways, my sister’s husband owns the place. She married into it, and I suppose I came part and parcel with her, no parents." she then adds as an afterthought "Unmarried.”

Anne clears her throat, and stands up straight suddenly, trying to clear some of the mist that had descended on her mind. She taps on the bar.  “I’ve come to get some drinks in for my friends.” she declares, and waves towards the men, “I promised beers all-round. Would I be able to put an order in for those?”

Ann Walker looks at her with a great glint in her eye. “Of course.” She ducks for a moment behind the counter, and a moment later emerges holding two bottles which she sets down before ducking again. This time she emerges with only one bottle and a on her face.

“I’m going to have to get more bottles from the cellar. You’ve almost drunk me dry!” she laughs that infectious laugh again.

“Can I help?” the words are in the air between them, the work of less than a moment.

Ann Walker, golden and joyous, pushes her lips together to push down a smile. She casts her eyes down lightly, and then back up again. “Yes um- You can help me carry? This way.”

Anne ducks under the counter and follows Ann through to a back room. A candle comes with them down steep stone steps and into the darkness of a cellar.

The cheery noise of the tavern leaks away quickly, the dark sapping away the sounds and leaving them alone with each other in the darkness.

“Just this-this way.” Ann holding the candle in her right hand, is turned away from Anne, so she is surprised when a small, soft hand wraps around her wrist and tugs her forwards. It is an unnecessary move, though Anne finds that she is endlessly grateful for it.

She moves with Ann willingly through the high shelves, the candle bleeding warmth over them. They stop and Ann sets the light down next to her on a shelf where there is a small space where a bottle must once have sat. She lifts one bottle and hands it to Anne, thrusting it out behind her, and then another - not for one moment turning to face her. Anne finds that that is all she wants.

And finally Ann turns to look at her, to hand another bottle.

“Oh.” Ann breathes into the darkness at the unexpected proximity of Anne. Anne says nothing but slowly leans down to set the bottle down at her feet before returning to an upright position. Ann hasn’t moved for another bottle, instead she is waiting and watching Anne.

Anne’s hand comes out to trace the delicate collarbone, exposed and licked by the low light. Her fingertips don’t linger there, they trace up over her shoulder slightly and then up the softness of her neck brushing into the nape of her hair and coming to rest under her earlobe, her thumb sweeps down and forward across her cheek and over her mouth, her perfect mouth.

Ann does not resist, she does not pull away in disgust or anger, and Anne breathes deeply in relief at this. Her thumb pulls down at Ann’s lower lip, letting the weight of the pull drag down her lip ever so slightly, her thumb warm with wetness.

“Miss Walker," Anne murmurs.

Ann surges forward with little else warning, pressing herself desperately against Anne. Her lips are soft but forceful, and Anne pushes back with too much gusto slamming them into the shelving behind.

She can’t get enough of this woman, her hands move of their own accord coming up to hold her face, desperation to pull them closer together drives her.

They come up for air both at the same time, foreheads pressed together.

Ann’s small huff and sighs are impossibly wonderful, and Anne pushes forward again. As she does, her right hand drifts down and she starts to pull at skirts, lifting the layers of fabric upwards.

“Urh” The sound is the gentlest of reluctance tangled up in their kiss. Anne pulls away at the sound, her hand stopping but retreating. “um -” Ann breathes in deeply “I um- I haven’t ever, I’m not sure what-”

“Will you trust me? Just for the next, oh, half hour or so?” Anne asks with a soft arrogance.

Ann looks at her deeply for a second and then she’s upon Anne again, and that is more than enough approval.

Her fingers trip lightly now, dancing along flesh and then dipping into that warm heat, and she feels rather than hears Ann’s inhale.

Anne presses forward, pushing on and on, until a slackness reaches Ann’s face, their fervent kissing halted as Ann’s head falls back against the shelving. It makes contact with such a thump that the candle jumps, the flame splutters, and then it clatters to the floor, the light goes out.

The darkness is sudden, tantalising, and she can feel Ann shift under her hands, so she presses forward again. Their mouths meet clumsily in the pitch black, but it doesn’t matter as Anne moves faster, harder.

Anne smiles to herself and moves her attention elsewhere, licking and teething at that soft point where her neck slopes into shoulder, her fingers never ceasing their movement.  She grinds the heel of her hand forward and the sound that Ann emits is enough to make Anne almost purr with satisfaction.

In the dark Ann’s sighs become the new light. They illuminate Anne’s way, pointing towards the where and how to drive as she brings Miss Walker to her pleasure.

Ann starts to arch forward and Anne redoubles her efforts at this. She presses her face forward in the darkness so that she can feel every breath that Ann takes. Occasionally, Ann’s cheek brushes against hers in their movement. Ann’s hands clutch at Anne’s shoulders, her grip growing tighter with each passing second, until with the greatest huff-moan her hands go slack entirely.

Anne slows her attentions, her hand retreating slowly, but not before pressing forward gently to draw the remaining shudders from Ann in fits and spurts. Each time Ann’s hands - now starting to tangle in Anne’s loosely tied hair - tighten infinitesimally before releasing. Ann’s head is pressed to Anne’s open collar, her breathing is deep and unsteady.

Eventually she reaches her hand out in the darkness, coming to rest under that fine chin and lift upwards, fingers probe the smooth face locating the lips, and they are kissing again. This time the kisses are slow and sweet.

“Come,” Anne finds herself whispering hoarsely after the longest time. “They’ll start to worry that something untoward has happened to their drinks.”

In the dark they fumble for the five bottles that they had come to retrieve in the first place, and make their way towards the grey light of the steps upwards and back to the busy drinking happening above, not a word passes between them.  

The bottles thump down on the counter-top. The tavern feels too crowded and far too loud for her now, after the stillness of their time in the cellar together. Anne cannot fathom how two separate worlds can exist so close together.

“I’ll settle up the tab before we leave,” Anne offers thinking of the beer. It is the first thing that has been said since emerging from the cellar and it feels deeply inadequate.

Ann Walker must also think so, as she lets out a snort and then a giggle. It eventually turns into full laughter. Anne looks on questioningly, though with some amusement.

Eventually the laughter subsides. Ann looks up with mirth in her eyes, “It really isn’t sort of establishment, Miss Lister.”

Anne’s lips twitch violently. She ducks back to the other side of the counter, her side, the world of patrons and drunkards, and lifts the now open bottles, juggling the necks of five bottles between long fingers that Ann keeps glancing at.

She leans forward “I meant for the beer, Miss Walker.” she murmurs. Then imperiously she declares “I’ll be back for those three, would you mind pouring me another Brandy as well?”

She returns to the table and it feels as if no time at all has passed. A few rounds have been and gone, and no one noticed her absence, or the men had little to complain about in the face of her reappearance with fresh drink.

She sets the five bottles down and returns to pick up the further three bottles. She sweeps by the bar quickly, knocking the brandy clean over - liquid spilling across the counter and to the floor behind the bar. “Drat. Let me just-” Anne says to no one in particular, as she quickly walks over to set the bottles with their rightful owners, and returns once more to the bar.

Again she finds herself on the wrong side for patrons. Ann Walker is on the floor, rag in hand sopping up the brandy.

Anne smiles at the view. “Here let me,” she kneels down and takes the rag from Ann’s hands. And they are kissing again, there behind the bar hidden from view, with all the world drinking above their heads.

“You did this on purpose!” Ann whisper-hisses all accusation, pulling back for a moment.  

“Of course,” Anne’s smug almost smile and raised eyebrows can’t be helped. “I’ll pay for the" she pauses and moves closer to Ann "-mess, don’t worry.”

Ann kisses her again, gentle peals of laughter pressing the smile against Anne's lips.  "It's really not that sort of place.” Ann mumbles, and Anne laughs as they move back so that they can lean against the racks of mugs that sit underneath the bar. They kiss and laugh some more,  mindless of the oblivious world above them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_ 1822 _

Captain Lister, her father, manages to locate her,  _ eventually _ . The men around her shoot to their feet, mostly unsteadily, in some sort show of respect to their superior. 

She almost chokes on the on the Cigarillo, a second that she had been offered once she had finally returned to the table, at the sight of her father in this place and looking for her no less. Once she is quite recovered she finds that her eyes dart around the place with a fleeting and completely illogical desperation to land on Ann, until she remembers with a jolt that the woman had retired a few hours ago when a man - presumably her brother-in-law - had entered the establishment and had appeared to release her from her duties after a short conversation. 

She had watched the blonde plait swing slightly as she left the room. Anne had returned to her game in a slightly more sober state. And then she had almost jumped from her skin when a warm hand had rested on her shoulder as Ann - stunning Ann - had leant across her and placed a brandy she hadn’t ordered in front of her before leaving again.

“Your drink, Miss Lister.” The smile had been small and secret, and only for them. 

Ann Walker was something else. 

Now, hours later, Anne finds herself being marched home by a mildly disgruntled father.

Despite this, the smile on her face was rather hard to remove. Shibden Hall eventually smatters into sight before them and Anne wonders if the place will ever look like anything other than small and shabby, and entirely run down. 

Her bed is a welcome comfort to her as she sinks into the downy mattress and contemplates what the morning might bring. 

*

As it turns out the morning brings nausea, an overcast sky, and the mundanity of her world crashing down on her. It’s a dry taste in her mouth. 

Marian is particularly shrill at breakfast which turns out to be a trying affair. Anne wonders what exactly had compelled her to make the journey downstairs to subject herself to such an ordeal, but the migraine, unhelped by the increasingly high pitched incredulity of Marian Lister, is tempered gently by memories of that soft woman in the cellar of the lodging house. 

She was nothing like Anne’s usual conquests. Anne prided herself on her discerning taste and superior social skills. She would - she firmly believed - settle with her intellectual and social equal, and nothing less would do. So thoughts of blonde hair and soot on her nose had no place with her.

*

It is nearly three weeks after her ‘evening out’ - as her family had taken to calling it - when Marian decided that she simply _ must  _ go into Halifax for fabric of some sort. Anne hadn’t really listened, content instead to devote what was shaping up to be a day of guaranteed peace and quiet to writing. 

Her aunt, apparently, had different ideas entirely. 

“Anne, you will accompany your sister into Halifax.”

“What? No.” Anne’s immediate reaction bypasses her mind completely. It is the middle of November, the weather is inclement and the warmth of the fire coupled with the promise of continuing to plan her next trip to the continent is a far more alluring alternative than traipsing to the haberdashery with her sister for poor company. 

“Yes, Anne.” her Aunt says firmly, there is no room for argument. “Marian can’t go alone. None of the servants are free enough to accompany her, and I am certainly in no fit state to make the walk.” 

*

The walk is as tedious as Anne imagines that it will be. The haberdashery is worse than the walk. Anne couldn’t quite fathom how Marian could talk for so long about  _ lace _ of all things. And good heavens, the  _ ribbons.  _

Anne leans against the sill of the bay window as her sister continues to natter. She wonders whether she might be able to leave her sister to the thrills and frills of bonnet shopping and slip away for a drink somewhere, she would certainly prefer it to liven up the walk home. The bell above the door tinkles lightly. “-And, Mrs. Morris, just which of the ribbons do  _ you  _ recommend, I know that on the continent the wider ribbons in darker colours are coming more into fashion, but perhaps that is a tad too forward for Halifax-” Anne can practically feel her eyes roll into the back of her skull. 

A gentle laugh sounds from the doorway. Anne looks up slowly to see Ann Walker stood there, fighting a smile. Anne stands up suddenly from her slouching position, and nods courteously. 

She clears her throat. “Miss Walker.”  

“Miss Lister.” Ann others a small bob and bow of her head in response, perhaps a curtsey. 

There’s another woman behind Ann, her sister, Anne imagines, if she were to guess by the similarities in their likeness. 

The sister does not dawdle but marches through the shop with a purpose that would rival Marian’s, calling after Mrs Morris with proclamations of a requirement for yards of plain cotton. Anne finds herself smiling at their similarities of purpose in the haberdashery. 

Ann wanders closer to the window that Anne had been perched on. 

“Sisters are a peculiar breed.” Anne offers as a conversation starter. 

“That they are.” agreement comes readily. She comes to stand next to Anne, their backs to the window. She doesn’t lean as Anne does, but instead stands quite straight. A rather odd silence falls between the pair of them, the likes of which Anne had not experienced before. She was used to fine ladies who ignored her entirely after an encounter and she was used to ladies who constantly engaged in outrageous flirtation with her, but this  _ somewhere-in-between _ was new territory. 

They both listen to the flurry of activity that make up two sisters running Mrs Morris ragged with requests. 

“Are you well?” Ann asks. Anne is startled by the question. She looks at her companion, who hadn’t turned to look at her in asking. Ann stood staring forward, seemingly refusing to acknowledge Anne’s very presence. 

Anne lets her eyes rest on those eyes, cheeks, slightly parted mouth with a hint of teeth showing. “Yes. Yes, Miss Walker, I am quite well.” she murmurs and watches as a flush rises to those cheeks. 

Ann clears her throat slightly, but still does not look to Anne. “Good.” Silence settles again. 

Anne’s tongue pushes at her bottom lip slightly, and she refrains from saying anything, even enquiring after Miss Walker’s own health. 

Anne observes the quiet of the front room of the shop and her hand creeps forwards in small increments. Not looking to Ann for a moment her little finger darts forward and hooks Ann’s little finger. Her middle fingers come up to brush at the smooth hand there. 

“-Only, I had thought, perhaps foolishly, that I would see you again. That you might visit.” Ann’s words startle Anne out of the reverie that smooth skin under her fingertips had lulled her into. The weak sun had burnt away some of the cloud and a small patch of warmth licks at their backs to the window. 

“Oh.” Anne was not quite sure how she might respond that would not insult or scare this woman. “I had not thought-” 

“-rubbish. You think of everything.” Anne knew that Ann was imagining those blissful moments - almost an hour or so - that they had spent talking and kissing sat on the dirty floor. . 

“Quite right.” Anne has to bolster herself and try a new tack. “You are young Miss Walker, still likely to find a husband. I hadn’t wanted to tread on any toes-” 

“No. Try again.” Ann responds gently but firmly. Anne is at a loss. 

“I- mhm I had thought that perhaps, you might not wish me to encroach on your life anymore than I already had." This had Ann's attention now. "In my experience I-" 

"You've been burnt before." Ann says. 

It's not quite how Anne was planning to finish the sentence; the words from Ann's mouth actually startle her but she finds she can't disagree. Her mouth is open around words she can't quite find. 

"Anne, I have finished here. Did you want to call by the stationers before returning home?" Marian's voice hammers through the shop. 

Anne stands up straight pulling her hand away from Ann’s quickly. "Yes, that would be useful." She turns to Ann. "Well, Miss Walker it was delightful to meet you. Perhaps I might call-" Anne stops. With fine ladies she could often call for tea in their drawing rooms and parlours. She did not know what to do with Ann "-for a stroll sometime." 

Ann blushes and ducks her head. "That would be nice, Miss Lister."

*

"What on earth was all that about?" Marian asks once they are clear of the haberdashery.  

"What on earth was  _ what _ about?" Anne asks for clarity. 

"Miss Walker? She hardly seems like your usual choice of company. She owns the lodging house, does she not?" 

"I can't be blamed if she proved more scintillating conversation than the taffeta, and she does not own the place. It belongs to her brother-in-law.” Anne waves at the question and the thought of the establishment like smoke in the air. “What’s your point Marian?” 

“Just that with all your swanning around the continent and keeping the company of Miss Belcombe -”

“-She’s Mrs. Lawton now, Marian-” 

“Well, Yes. Mrs. Lawton, and Lady Stuart wasn’t it, and all those other  _ fine people.  _ Someone who works at the lodging house in Halifax doesn’t really seem to your taste.” 

“Tastes can change, Marian.” Anne grits out, annoyed at the conversation. Annoyed at the fact that Marian had decided that today of all days to acquire some observation skills. 

“Tastes can change. You, however, rarely do.” She points out. Anne wants to argue but they are entering another shop and the stationers seems a poor choice of location to start a heated discussion with her sister about the quality of one’s own character. So she desists. 

Anne turns over Marian’s comments in her head for days after. It takes very little effort to see where this idea of Marian’s had come from, and Anne is slightly mollified to find that her tastes tended to run deeply and were rather obvious. She sought greater company that her own, she sought challenge and stimulation in conversation and leisure, not a circular discussion of the so-called  _ politics  _ of Halifax’s insular world. 

And all of this she had seemed to forget at the sight of Miss Walker. It had dripped like hot water from her ear after being submerged for the greatest length of time. 

Miss Walker provided an adequate challenge, though one that did not seem fruitless and as ill-fated as some of Anne’s other encounters had. She was not the exception to Anne’s aversion to the littleness of Halifax and the surrounding locale, but rather she seemed impossibly beyond the place. Ann did not rise above this small community in a manner of unsanctioned snobbery, she just simply  _ was not  _ part of it. She was removed from it, and Anne wondered whether that meant that the girl might be easily displaced to somewhere else, somewhere grander and matching her beauty with a splendour of its own. 

These were thoughts not worth entertaining. Anne had not been treading lightly when she had commented on Ann’s own youth and likeliness to take a husband. Even if she had seemed far removed from everything that Halifax sought to impose in it’s dull and dreary way, Ann would no doubt bend to the will of this small community and be settled with husband and expecting inside of a year. 

And yet -  _ and yet -  _ Anne finds herself standing outside of the lodging house at 3 o’clock of a Wednesday afternoon, having rapped sharply on the door and asking whether Miss Walker might be available. 

As it turned out, Miss Walker was available. 

“I uhm - Well, I thought I might ask if you would like to take a stroll?”

“A stroll?” Ann repeats the word with a dry disbelief. She is stood in the doorway of the lodging house. She’s dressed but dishevelled slightly, and barefoot. People walk past the lodging house and pass odd judging looks in Ann Walker’s general direction. 

“Oh heavens, yes fine. Give me a few moments.” The door slams roughly in Anne’s face, and it causes her to emit a short sharp bark of laughter. 

Nearly seven minutes later a Miss Walker emerges, looking more respectable, complete with boots, bonnet, and shawl. Some of the glassiness of sleep has left her eyes, through the pink in her cheeks is stubborn and delightful. 

They strike up a pleasant pace “I thought we might cut through to Lower Kirkgate, over Beacon Hill and round the back to Shibden Hall? Even in the depths of winter as we are, the estate has a quaint charm about the place. And we could take some tea.” 

“Tea?” Ann asks, that same disbelief back again. 

“Tea.” Anne says firmly. 

“Oh. Uhm, alright.” Ann answers. 

Anne looks down to the woman beside her. They are almost out of Halifax entirely by this point. 

“Come now, Miss Walker, where has all that fire gone? You were quick to tell me off on Saturday, but now...” 

Ann pulls the shawl around herself. “Well, I - I never thought that you would actually  _ do  _ anything. I had hoped to see you again, but then when I didn’t after one week and the next so I assured myself that you really weren’t going to come by again” she flushed prettily, “And when I saw you at Mrs Morris’ I just, well, I don’t know what came over me. I suppose I thought that you ought to know that you’d disappointed me some-” 

Anne finds herself nodding. The woman was something entirely new, a creature the likes of which Anne had not yet encountered in her 32 years on the earth. 

“- And I just thought I had said my piece. I never expected that you would actually  _ do  _ anything.” 

“Well then, I do hope you’ll accept my apology, it was never my intention to disappoint you.” there is heat in her words, “And even less my intention to upset you. I would be very sad indeed if an error on my part meant that you thought poorly of me.”

“You - You’re not just doing this because I told you off, are you?” 

She laughs loudly and the skeletons of trees that line Lower Kirkgate seem to shake with laughter. “It takes rather a lot more than a scolding from someone to incline me to act on  _ anything  _ that I don’t wish to. I am very much here, with you, because I want to, and not because of anything said or unsaid.” 

“Right, yes.” Ann seems to have not expected such a declaration. “What was your intention then?”

“Hmm?” 

“If you wanted to-” she casts about for the right word “meet again, why the great delay? You said you had not intended to upset or to disappoint me, yet had we not encountered each other on Saturday I doubt that...” Ann lets the sentence trail off. 

Anne feels the weight of the truth in the statement, even unfinished as it is, and is overcome with a compulsion to be entirely honest. 

“I’m not planning on staying.”

“Oh.” 

“I never plan on staying in Halifax for long, it’s too small, too provincial, too parochial! I’m planning on travelling again: Paris, Vienna, Berlin - wherever will have me, for as long as they’ll have me. The world is vast and ripe for the taking-” 

“And I am but a girl who works at a lodging house in small,  _ quaint  _ Halifax-”

“What? No!” Anne sees her error now. “ _ And-” _ she starts the end of her sentence again “-travelling takes a great deal of forethought and planning. If you must know I’ve been stuck going over maps and keeping up my correspondence with my friends on the continent. Making travel arrangements is a tiresome business, but a necessity so that I can be away from this place.”  

They had made it to the mount of Beacon Hill. On one side Halifax is laid out before them, on the other Anne can sense Shibden Hall, lit up slightly. There is warmth there. The mid-november wind wraps around them, grey clouds overhead are starting to darken into grey pre-dusk, even as they start to edge towards the later afternoon. They are quite alone, no one else would venture out for a stroll in such weather. 

“Oh,” Ann repeats again. Anne wonders if she has broken the woman. 

“Oh?” Its is intended as a question. 

“I had thought, perhaps, that we might get to know each other, is all. Whilst I know we are not exactly matched socially, I know - but no. I was mistaken, that was foolish of me to think, you will be gone very soon” 

And here Anne sees her bigger mistake. There is nothing for it. 

She pulls Ann round to face her and grasps her face in her hands, Thumbs stroking at her cheeks. She glances around them - they are exposed, but in the fading November light, with the wind keeping people firmly in doors, and Halifax far beneath them, Anne thinks that the chance is worth taking. 

She leans forward and presses the gentlest of kisses to soft lips. A sigh comes from parted lips, breathing life back into Anne. She hadn’t realised how much she had yearned for this - yearned for Ann - in the weeks they had been apart.  _ Apart _ all because of her own stupidity. They kiss some more, ignoring the wind and the specks of rain that start to fall. Lips and teeth and hands move slowly, the need for this contact coming in fits and starts and slow tenderness. They come apart slowly and reluctantly. 

“I should very much like to get to know you.” Anne punctuates this with a kiss. “Come, we can take tea for a while at Shibden, and have you back in Halifax before 6 o’clock.” 

“Tea. Yes.” Ann agrees, breathless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'A While Since' was meant to be a one shot. For the first time I'm writing without a plan, so I hope you're ready to come on this journey...


	3. Chapter 3

Tea passes delightfully. Miss Walker - Ann - proves to be excellent company. She’s young certainly, though surprisingly well read for her upbringing. Anne learns through the course of the afternoon that she has a sister, a brother-in-law, a modest allowance, a few cousins in York, some extended family in London, a smattering of French at her disposal, and a fire for discovery about the world in her eyes.

Ann had listened with rapt attention as she wove tales of the continent, the younger woman letting out the appropriate guffaws and the occasional squeak of embarrassed-delight at some of the more risqué details of society that Anne had observed.

She also played a wicked game of cribbage.

By the end of the few hours Anne finds that she is quite infatuated with the woman.

The clock in the hallway gently chimes five and somewhere in the house a servant slams a door. The sounds draw the two bodies further away from each other, where they had settled nestled ever so slightly on the seat.

“I should be away,” Ann murmurs into the companionable quiet that had settled. Anne had assured her that Shibden was rarely so peaceful, but with Marian calling on friends in Halifax the entire Hall could breathe easy for an hour or two.

“I’ll see you back into Halifax.”

“There’s no need, really.”

“Rubbish, I am the reason that you are all the way out here, I shall certainly be party to the effort to return you.” She lifts herself off the bench and her hand is still tangled with Ann’s. She doesn’t remember when their fingers had become intertwined. “Oh.” a warm smile comes to her face. “Come now.” She pulls gently and Ann lifts herself from the bench.

Anne does not stop the gentle pull until Ann is in her arms. Her hands come up to hold Ann’s face.

“Anne - someone might see."

“Let them.” Anne says, though she doesn’t mean it. But it would take too long to explain that her Aunt on some deep level knew of her tastes, that her father was unlikely to surface from his books any time soon, and that the servants were well occupied. Anne had seen that the importance of not interrupting her had been impressed on the staff when she had ordered tea.

They kiss in the warmth beckoning from the hearth of Shibden Hall. Anne cannot explain to herself, nor to any other, quite how she felt having someone with her in her home, who offered the chance to have her affections returned without condition or judgement.

Shibden, quaint and run down as it was, might possibly edge into the realm of alluring with the promise of Miss Walker attached to it. Anne had been in a number of fine beds in her time and had had a good number of fine ladies in her own bed - wherever she might rest her head. Shibden had only ever been privy to one of her affairs - Mrs Lawton - who had been dismissive of the Hall at best, and more often than not indifferent to the place, her attention fixed on Anne only. Her numerous other encounters had been limited to the grand walls of the grand houses of grand families.

She had not considered any other possibility in her thirty-two years.

Ann deepens the embrace, her own hands coming to wrap around Anne’s neck, pulling Anne down slightly, Anne smiles into the kiss. When they part Ann’s cheeks are flushed and her pupils are wide.

“We need to leave.” Anne whispers across the two inches between them

Ann nods suddenly bashful. The walk back to Halifax is unpleasant and euphoric simultaneously. Both the weather and the prospect of parting is unsettling, though in the dark of winter they are able to walk unbothered by the prospect of encountering any other souls and so rarely unclasp their hands from each other’s grip.

On the doorstep to the lodging house Ann pauses and simply squeezes Anne’s hand before untangling their fingers.

“I will see you soon, Miss Walker.” Anne speaks clearly and the promise is clear.

“I do hope so, Miss Lister.”

*

Anne does in fact see Miss Walker soon. She calls two days later in the hope that Ann might be free and that they might take another stroll. Which she is, and they do.

They pass a companionable few hours with each other navigating the outer perimeter of Halifax and entertaining each with tales of their respective childhoods. The weak sunshine cuts through their afternoon with a little more determination than it has displayed earlier in the month.

The afternoon ends with the same promise of another meeting.

It’s a promise that gives Anne pause for thought at the letters accumulating on her desk, all brimming with excitement from friends in London and abroad of her own imminent visit.

She puts the thought away from her for the time being. Plans could change, if required.

They go to tea together in the quaint tea-room in Halifax once but they quickly find that it’s not conducive to their own style of fiery repartee. The ladies on the table adjacent to theirs look thoroughly perturbed at the loud laughter that one or both of them emit on a regular basis.

They favour long walks with each other, and the route of their strolls vary, sometimes factoring in a stop at Shibden to take tea or sandwiches, and enjoying each other’s company sheltered from the elements.

One day, whimsy grips hold of Anne. She arrives in Halifax with the carriage early in the morning. A few moments later she has Miss Walker with her.

“We’re going for Lunch.” She declares.

“Anne,” she laughs, “What on earth - it’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

“Exactly, a quick three hours - two and a half if luck is with us - across to Leeds, gets us nicely there for lunch time. And then we can leave by three, be back in Halifax for six this evening.” Anne rattles off the plan brusquely.

“And what if I were to say that I am working today?”

That brings Anne up short. She stops suddenly in the centre of the road and swings round.

“Are you?” She asks.

Anne looks so perturbed by her own oversight that Ann can’t help the well of sympathy that rises. The woman had been so excited by the prospect of lunch, in Leeds, with Ann of all people.

“Well, no. Luckily. It’s quiet, I managed to finish a lot of preparation this morning, and my sister has the patience of a saint. George less so.” Ann says, her face screwing up at the thought of her brother-in-law.

“Why did you say that then?” Anne demands. “You had me concerned.”

Ann softens. “We have not upset them just yet, I feel that perhaps a more predictable schedule might be conducive to avoiding catastrophe altogether?”

“Yes, that sounds quite sensible.” There’s a long pause. “But you are still able to come dine with me today, yes?” Anne asks, an excited child on the eve of christmas.

Ann huffs a put-upon sigh. “Yes, Anne.”

Anne leads her to a fine establishment at the centre of town when they arrive in Leeds. She pulls the seat out for Ann, waiting for her to sit first, before taking her own seat.

The hall tinkles with the sounds of soft conversation and cutlery and Ann is awe-struck by the place, throwing surreptitious glances at the décor or the other patrons. She smiles shyly when Anne orders for the both of them, awed to shyness by the formality of the maître d’ and waiters.

Anne had thought she might find such a reaction to be slightly vulgar, but on Ann it is both fleeting and endearing.

Once their order has been taken she watches for one heart stopping moment as Ann struggles to shape a sentence out. Eventually she manages, asking whether Anne minds.

"Do I mind what exactly?" Anna clarifies, tapping her finger against her glass. A habit, not impatience.

"That I don't have the airs and graces of other ladies that you have known. That people might say things about me, about us."

"What would they say about us?" Anne demands sharply around a sip of water.

"Just our friendship. That we're so very different. In age, class…" Ann trails off.

"You're worried they might think that I'm being charitable."

Ann remains silent at the thought aired. Now it has manifested it feel vulgar and unclean.  

"You're worried that I _am_ being charitable.”

"Well I can't imagine why else you might be interested in me." Ann tries quickly, showing the soft underbelly of her insecurity.

“No of course not! It can't have anything to do with your charm or wit.” Anne hisses “Or your intelligence. Heaven forbid I have noticed your beauty, that would be too much." If they had been in a place that weren’t so public, Ann knows that she would be pacing.

She reaches out and places a hand over Anne’s, in part to soothe the rough tapping against the table cloth she has resorted to, and in part to hold on for a heartbeat longer before she said her next piece.

“-I am more worried that they might say that I-" she stumbles at the thought. "That I might be taking advantage. Our friendship is so mismatched that I must be using you to further my own gains"

“Oh." Anne deflates heavily in her seat at this thought. "Oh." The thought hadn't even occurred to her. She peers at Ann. "Are you?" Genuine inquiry.

"No!"

"Good. Well that's that settled then.”

“It’s only – I’m concerned that I am not equal to your usual company. You speak of Mrs. Lawton, Lady Gordon, Lady Stuart, and many others. They sound like such beautiful, intelligent characters. And I. Well, how can I hold a candle to that?” Ann asks with a lilting desperation in her voice.

“Hold a candle to- ? Ann, they would struggle to hold a match up to you.”

Anne is in love. It strikes in that moment. The words tumble out so casually, so without thought or emotion, but with so much conviction behind them that she can’t help but notice the love there, sat in the corner of her mind, waiting patiently to be presented to the rest of Anne’s being.

“And” she continues in an effort to not examine the feeling too closely “Grand ladies they may be in title and wealth, but it is just that. If you were to don a gown and be plonked in their midst you would more than hold your own. It’s all a bravado.” she explains in earnest. “Intelligent conversation is a currency that rises above all others with that sort, and you have that is spades.” she waves at the air as if to dissipate the image of fine ladies from her mind.

Ann is not quite sure how to respond to that. Thankfully their soup arrives, and she does not need to present anything resembling a coherent answering comment.

*

It is indeed six o’clock when Ann is returned to Halifax.

She makes her way through the front door, tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet as she walks. She finds Mr Rawson and George in deep conversation at the counter-cum-bar, Rawson is leaning heavily on the bar – hand grasped around a glass of something. Ann wants to say something at the sight of him there, he is desecrating the site where she first met Anne, and she doesn't like it one bit.

“You know what they say about her don’t you?” The gravelly voice comes across the room clearly.

She doesn’t realise that it is a comment directed at her, until Rawson grinds it out again.

“No.” she says with an icy civility. It’s not a question. She’s untying her bonnet, and wrapping the ribbons around her hand.

“They say that she prefers to keep the company of the _ladies_.” he leers at her. She can hear the inflammatory intent in his comment, yet it's lost beneath the innocent phrasing.

“Well, Mr. Rawson, if the alternative is men like you, I am hardly surprised.” The words slip out unbidden.

“Impertinent little-”

“Ann!” the sharp bark of George Sutherland drowns out however Rawson was intending to finish the sentence. “Apologise-“

“-She’s nineteen. Far too old to be running around unmarried, Sutherland. Mark my words.” Rawson grumble-shouts to no-one in particular.

He picks his hat up and starts to stumble from the dark room out into the dark of the street. Ann watches him leave with a steady gaze. The door slams behind him.

She finishes wrapping the ribbon up in her hand and starts to move towards the kitchen, bonnet still clutched in front of her.

“We had seven seperate lodgers ask why there was no food ready for them today.” Sutherland says with a light tone. Ann wasn’t deceived.

“There were cold cuts and cheese ready in the larder, and cooked potatoes and carrots cold left from last night-”

"-and I can’t help but feel like this wouldn’t be the case if you weren’t swanning about with Miss Lister, heaven knows where-”

“-George,-”

"Now, I don’t know if there is any truth in what Rawson says. But I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if you weren’t to see Miss Lister anymore.” His tone brooks no argument.

Ann knows better than to argue. She wouldn’t feel his wrath, but her sister would bear the marks of his displeasure the next morning and Ann couldn’t do that to her.

*

_My Dearest Anne,_

_I hope you’ll forgive me for the nature of this missive. I find that I am quite at a loss for a logical explanation of my recent absence. I pray that you’ll be able to see your way to meeting me at St Paul’s Church for mass on Sunday._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Ann_

It was a peculiar occurrence. Anne wrote the occasional note to Miss Walker, notes that she could have John deliver directly to Ann’s own hand, but Ann was constrained by the postal service or her ability to personally deliver a note, especially as John was not always available to wait the hours it would take for Ann to find the time to pen a response.

So, when the letter is placed in her hand by Cordingly, a week or so after their lunch in Leeds and following multiple unsuccessful calls on the lodging house, she is quite surprised.

It is a perplexing collection of sentences. She had assumed that perhaps Miss Walker had grown weary of her after such a concentrated period of each other’s company. But the note seemed to refer to a cause of the absence, and no one with an ounce of common sense who was trying to distance themselves from another would willingly make contact to instigate a meeting.

So, Anne finds herself at St Paul’s church on Sunday. She had not expected so public a meeting place, perhaps expecting that Ann might find her and they would break from the congregation together and go for a stroll, but as she enters she sees Miss Walker in the thick of the socialising that preceded every Sunday, with no route visible for a subtle escape. Her sister - she remembers from the haberdashery - stands near, on the arm of a man who must be George Sutherland.

They move to take their seats. Anne walks swiftly and silently up the aisle on the right side of the church, slipping into the row of pews that Ann had chosen from the opposite end. Ann looks up just as Anne takes her seat and she smiles a glowing little smile, before bowing her head slightly as if to catch herself.

Her sister and her husband have taken the pew directly in front of them.

“Miss Walker.” Anne nods a gentle greeting.

“Miss Lister, how pleasant to see you _here_.” There is an odd lilting stiffness in her voice, Anne notices.

Her comment alone is an open invite to justify her presence in _this_ particular church in Halifax on _this_ particular Sunday.

“Ah yes, well one of my tenants was extolling the virtues of the good Reverend Hudson’s sermons, and I thought I _must_ simply come and witness it for myself. It’s such an artform to deliver a sermon that doesn’t put one soundly to sleep, I find. And the weather was suitably clear this morning that I found myself quite in want of a good long walk into Halifax.” Anne smoothly offers.

The man in front of her, George Sutherland, seems to deflate slightly. Anne doesn’t miss this.

She looks to Ann and meets her eyes, before inclining her head purposefully towards Sutherland. Ann nods imperceptibly, and Anne understands in a great wash of a moment, though she is wrong-footed by it at the same time.

The women whose company she usually kept had tended to hold a great deal more autonomy than she is starting to understand that Ann has at her disposal. Even in the confines of families that might breath down their necks in order to force a favourable marriage, she had never engaged someone who was held under such great power by a male relative that was not their own husband. Though heavens had she had encountered enough of _those_ types.

The Lord's prayer concludes and she - rather unnaturally - sets her hands down at her sides, resting on the wood of the pew, rather than clasped in her lap. Ann recognises the invitation for what it is and follows suit, her right hand coming down to rest gently on Anne’s left.

The end of mass arrives with merciful swiftness.

“Mrs. Sutherland, I was wondering if perhaps I might borrow your sister for a turn?” She asks once all are gathered outside the church. She doesn’t elaborate further, and she purposely ignores Mr. Sutherland.

“Of course, Miss Lister. No need to ask.” Elizabeth is courteous.

Ann’s heart is in her throat as they leave the gathered congregation socialising behind them, picking through gravestones on a path of Anne’s choosing.

“I had worried that you might not come.” Ann starts once they are far enough away.

“Hmmm.” there is the longest pause, in which Ann considers that, perhaps, it had been luck that brought Anne to St Paul’s, rather than Ann’s plea. “It occurred to me that you may have grown bored of me.”

“-Anne, no!-”

“But then I received your note, and I couldn’t ignore _that._ ” Anne sounds upset, distressed by the thought of the note.

“Sutherland, he’s not a good man.” Ann offers with some difficulty.

“Evidently.” Anne clips out with grit in her voice.

“He- He doesn’t think I should be spending time with you. He’s been listening to what people _say.”_ She whispers the last word despite the fact that they have reached the boundary of the church yard, and now - now Anne was opening the gate and waiting for Ann to proceed through.

“And you? Are you listening to what people _say?”_ she asks, sarcasm etched in her words.

“I - I hear what people say.” she offers carefully, “I do not listen to it for one moment.”

Anne’s heart stops. How did this girl undo her so?

Their hands brush as they walk now, the trees winding around the idyllic path becoming thicker the further they walk.

“-he wants me to marry, Anne. He wants to see me matched with his cousin. Alexander Mackenzie. I haven’t even met the man- ”

“Do you want to marry him?” Anne asks too abruptly.

“-And even if I had met the man, it makes no difference to me. Anne? Anne - whatever’s the matter?”

“You will be married and settled soon.” The bitterness of Mariana is still fresh on her palate.

“Do you think so little of me, Anne?” She stops walking and lowers her voice despite the trees that surround them and hide them from any prying eyes or ears. “I can’t imagine that I will ever marry.” She reaches out to touch Ann’s face, there is promise in her words.

Anne turns away from the touch abruptly.

“Another promised me such a thing, and she was older and wiser than you. You’re young, you’ll change your mind, no doubt.” her words cut sharply.

“How dare you-” Ann calls, offended, and, at a loss for what else to say to the woman across to her, she surges forward with a kiss that was more bite and anger than much else.

Anne pushes back, and then pulls away quickly. She casts about around them and then pulls Ann off the path and deeper into the woods.  

Their lips meet again, crashing in anger and pent up frustration at being forced apart for the past week.

Ann runs her hands down her arms holding her hands briefly before bringing her hands forward and then pushing Anne’s coat open and slipping her hands inside, wrapping around her waist and pushing their bodies together.

The warmth of her body is like a flame to her, she wants to be closer that she can physically get to this intelligent, beautiful, bold woman. And no person - not man, or woman, or child - could come between them.

Anne’s hands come up and cup her face and neck. Ann finds herself moaning into the touch. Despite their regular closeness, Ann and Anne had not had the opportunity to be intimate again since that first time in the cellar. Now, they could feel the ache between them to explore each other, to have that opportunity to touch and be touched again and again.

But the small copse of trees that backed onto the churchyard of St Paul’s was not the place and they both knew this.

They break away, flushed and breathing hard.

“I love you.” The words sit hot and heavy in the silence between them. “I love you - and if you can see your way to loving me in return, I think we could be happy together. In some way. Whatever way. But I would underst-” she gulps. “Well, no. I wouldn’t understand-” she corrects “-but I accept that sometimes one is not as free to choose as it might first appear, and I accept that in this case, in _our_ case, nature does not lend itself to an easy union.”

It’s an admission greater than Anne had ever expected herself to make though she cannot find it within her to regret it. She does however wonder how she managed to find herself to all but proposing to the girl.

“Anne.” she breathes, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Right.” Anne brushes a stray leaf from her skirt and starts to pick her way back to the path. Ann watches her as she goes expecting her to make off at her usual swift pace, but once on the path she stops and waits. It takes some moments for Ann to realise that she is waiting for her. Ann finds her way to the path.

“I apologise if I have overstepped-” Anne starts.

“Anne, no, you haven’t. I do have-” she picks her words carefully. “-Very fond feelings for you.”

“Fondness. How lucky I am.” Anne remarks dryly.

“You’ll forgive me, Anne Lister, that I need some time to think.” Ann demands, suddenly impatient. “Having not had the worldly experience that you have I can’t claim to have felt love before. So, I shan’t be careless with your heart by simply frittering away the word with no comprehension of its weight.”

Anne is at a loss for a response so simply continues looking ahead of her, the churchyard coming back into view.

“Are you still intending to travel?” Ann’s voice is quiet.

“Yes.” Anne thinks of her plans that had started to take more and more shape over the past days. “I hope to be in London for Christmas, and across to Paris in the new year. I had started to wonder, perhaps, if you might want to-” she bites off the sentence.

“What?”

“If you wanted to come with me.” Anne finishes.

“Anne.” her voice goes soft. “Anne, I can’t.”

“Right, of course. You need to stay here, and work, and get married -have children.”

“Anne, please. Don’t be childish.”

They are too close to the church now to really continue this conversation.

“I’m not being childish.” she snaps. “That’s what you are saying, isn’t it? You can’t travel with me, you need to stay for family, so you can be settled, so you can get married.”

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Ann hisses.

“But it’s true.”

“It’s partially true. I need you to understand that it’s not as simple as you seem to think it is, for me.”

“That’s it then?” Anne says with an air of finality. “That’s your answer?”

“My answer? My answer to what?” Ann asks with some desperation. Anne seemed to be having an entirely different conversation to the one that Ann was privy to.

“Ann, there you are!” Elizabeth calls across the yard. George is still with her. Ann had thought they would have left and returned home, so she is startled to see them. “George insisted that we wait for you. Are you coming back with us?”

Ann looks at Anne for a searching moment.

“Yes. Yes I’ll come with you now.” Ann says to her sister.


	4. Chapter 4

To her surprise George makes no comment about Ann’s excursion with Miss Lister on their journey home. 

She’s not sure what she would have done if he had, other than perhaps to start weeping some. She had started to believe that Anne represented that indescribable something that Ann had been yearning for, outside of the marriages that she saw all of her female relatives and school friends sold into, 

Now, within the cruel twists of one conversation she had, it would seem, lost everything. 

George makes no comment about Ann’s excursion, but she can feel his watchful gaze as they walk, and she would wager that he would not cease his close observation of her anytime soon. 

*

“Miss Lister seems like a very fine friend to have.”  Elizabeth says one evening. They are sat together on Ann’s bed, Elizabeth is reading and Ann is sketching something in the low light. 

“She is.” Ann responds for lack of anything else to add. “Though, I’m afraid that I may have upset her. I think she might be cross with me.” 

The opportunity to confide in her sister is too great to pass by. 

“Oh no? That is a mighty shame. You seemed to be getting on so well.” Elizabeth offers mildly. “Oh, Ann!” She exclaims softly when she looks up to find Ann with fat tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“She’s been terribly good to me. I’m worried that I have ruined all of that!” 

“Ann, shhhhh.” Elizabeth smooths her hands down Ann’s arms. “Shhhh. I am sure that, if Miss Lister is as good a friend as you say, that she will forgive you. Perhaps, tomorrow you can walk across to Shibden and smooth all this over?” She asks. 

The thought is tempting certainly. And then the thought of Sutherland, and his unnecessarily firm hold on her sister’s wrist this afternoon on their walk back from St Paul’s comes unbidden to mind.

“Perhaps.” she manages around deep breaths. 

“There, the morning will bring a solution. You are fond of her.” Elizabeth looks at Ann for the longest time. “George keeps speaking to me of his cousin, Alexander. I think he intends to introduce you to him, he has some ideas of marriage between you two.” Elizabeth goes back to staring at her book, though Ann can see that she is not reading, “Though I do sometimes wonder whether a good friendship is better than a marriage”

*

The morning comes and Ann can feel him watching her every move closely. When she ventures out to the shop to pick up more flour and some tea, he watches her leave and is stood waiting when she returns. 

She does at some point find the time to write a letter to Anne - though her words are hollow and empty sounding even as she reads them back to herself. She burns the paper before the ink has dried fully. 

Later in the afternoon, with much of Ann’s work in the kitchen done, and only the cleaning to occupy her for the rest of the day, she makes her way out into the main room. George is there, the ledger open on the counter before him, but he is holding and reading a separate sheaf of paper.

He looks at her as she walks into the room, and then purposely looks back at the paper. He finishes reading and then carefully folds the sheet up, placing it next to the ledger book, and pressing his hand flat against it, and looks at her again. He leaves the room slamming the ledger shut as he does. 

Ann trips over to the ledger lightly her fingers brush against the counter top. She reaches out to take the letter, for she can see now that’s what it is. It’s addressed to her. 

The contents are vile, outrageous, and unnerving. Ann wasn’t sure what she had expected but the vulgar words that jump across the page are not it. There is no name signed on the paper and the writing is in a hand that seems purposely scrawled to disguise the person who penned it. 

It is both a warning and a tarring on one page. Ann’s face flames red at the thought of someone thinking these things, let alone having the courage to commit them to writing and then the thought of Sutherland  _ reading  _ this. 

She touches the paper to the candle flame, watching as it goes up in flames swiftly. She holds the paper away from her body, holding on long past the point where the heat on her hand becomes unbearable. This must be what the heat of hell feels like, and then she laughs silently to herself at the ridiculous thought. 

She lets go of the paper at the last moment, letting flaking ash and the last piece of flaming paper fall to the ground. George walks back into the room to see as Ann steps on the last piece to extinguish it. 

He’s carrying a letter of his own now.

“My cousin, Alexander, is coming to stay for the next few weeks. We - your sister and I- think it would be best for all if you were not to discourage his attentions.” George states firmly. 

Ann’s thoughts fly to the letter that is now little more than ash on the floor, and then to Anne Lister, who she imagines sitting in the parlour of Shibden, probably writing in her diary, and then back to George and the weight of expectation in his gaze. 

“Of course.” she replies, knowing that she cannot say anything else. 

*

Alexander arrives on the Wednesday. He’s polite and young. In another world Ann imagines she would be quite happy with him. It is not this world. 

He’s a tenacious man, spending time with her doggedly. He asks her for strolls which she agrees to with the caveat of Elizabeth joining them in order to chaperone, he compliments her which she averts her eyes to, and he takes an interest in her life and her hobbies. It’s all quite  _ nice.  _

One evening - Saturday - the four of them, Ann, Elizabeth, George, and Alexander, are spending time in a warm silence by the fire when Alexander starts to make sounds about settling more permanently in Halifax. Ann fidgets uncomfortably in her seat, but she doesn’t look up from her sketchbook. 

He rambles for the longest time, with some encouragement from George and the occasional smile from Elizabeth. 

“Oh, are you planning on staying for the foreseeable future Mr Mackenzie?” Ann asks beautifully, innocently. Alexander struggles to come up with an adequate response. 

*

The next morning they attend church as they had the week before. Ann takes her seat on the same pew as she had the week before, this time Alexander takes a seat next to her. 

She closes her eyes as the sound of the Lord’s prayer muttered by a hundred other voices washes over her. A movement next to her and she inhales deeply, she knows what she’ll see when she opens her eyes and worries that she might act inappropriately. 

The light in the church is pressing against her eyelids, playing a warm blue through the skin. Eventually she cracks her eyes open ever so slightly. Alexander on her left is looking stoically ahead, listening with false enthusiasm to the sermon that hums through the church at a low drone. 

Miss Lister sits on her right, eyes fixed ahead. Ann releases a breath she hadn’t realised that she had been holding on to for nearly a week now. Her mouth forms around her name and she breathes out a silent  _ Anne.  _

She does as they had a week ago, and sets her hands unnaturally on the pew at her sides, hoping Anne noticed and took up the invitation. Yet, through the hymns and the preaching her hand remains cold and set on the rough wood quite alone. 

The sermon comes to a long, dragging conclusion. Sutherland turns around to say something to Alexander in the gentle hubbub of the end of the service and stops short at the sight of Miss Lister sat next to his sister-in-law. 

It’s then that Anne’s hand falls on hers. Sitting there for just a moment, her thumb sweeping across the back of her hand just once, before pulling away entirely. She stands abruptly after that and nods politely to Ann, to George and Elizabeth too, and then leaves the church. 

“See, it seems that your friend was not too upset with you.” Elizabeth mentions to Ann on their walk home, their arms looped together. “She wouldn’t have come if she really hadn’t wanted to. It’s not her usual church, is it?” 

“I suppose.” Ann says, a little breathless and a little hurt. Anne’s appearance wasn’t an offering of peace or reconciliation, she thought. It felt like a final farewell. 

*

Next Sunday, Anne is not at the church and Ann’s thoughts are confirmed. 

Two days later Alexander Mackenzie extends an offer of marriage to her in earnest. In clear words that even she is unable to ignore. 

He had approached her in the kitchen -  _ the kitchen of all places - _ and had started a stuttering speech. 

“You have noticed my um, my plans to settle more permanently in Halifax, and though you are far too kind and urm virtuous,” - Ann doubted that the man had ever used that word in his life before “-to make any assumptions about my intentions, I had hoped that you had perhaps started to understand a little of my feelings. Let me assure you that I have approached your sister and George to obtain their blessings in this before reaching out to yourself, though I’m sure that won’t surprise you in the least. I wish therefore to extend and offer of marriage.” 

“Mr Mackenzie, I - that’s very kind of you,” Ann can’t think of anything else to say. She had up until this point now thought that she would be able to go along with it, accept this fate for what it was and - as Anne had joked once - go on to fulfill her duty as a woman on this planet. 

Now that the option lay in front of her, while she’s kneading bread and her hands are dry and covered in flour and stringy flecks of clinging dough, she knows that she is unable to do that. 

“That’s very kind of you. And you are a very kind man who will someday fulfill all the matrimonial dreams of some other girl. You are a kind person-” And why can she not conjure any more descriptors other than  _ kind  _ all of a sudden? “So I’m sure that you’ll understand when I tell you that it is quite impossible for me to accept such an offer.” 

A long ocean of silence stretches out between them, neither of them willing to dip their toe in. 

“Oh.” He eventually manages. He hadn’t expected a rejection. Though in all honesty neither had she. “Oh.” He repeats. “George had led me to believe- well. That you would be amenable to a proposal of marriage.” 

“Yes. George would have said that.” Ann replies, pushing the dough against the hard wood of the table with a little bit too much force. 

“I had - I had best be off for a bit then.” Alexander jerks towards the door-frame, looking still rather bemused. 

“Oh, alright.” She’s not sure what she expected, though his ego must be bruised and a hasty retreat probably was the best option for all. Ann’s mind unthinkingly wanders to the image of Miss Lister on the path in that copse of trees behind St Paul’s, the morning light behind her, with bare branches overhead and golden-amber leaves underfoot, stood waiting for her after they had quarrelled and kissed. 

She knows when George finds out. The banging that can be heard through the entire establishment is quite warning enough, though he does not materialise for hours. Occasionally she can hear her sister’s voice join the banging, she seems to be pleading for something. Ann stays in the safety of the kitchen, making herself busy with one thing or another. 

It is late - nearly midnight - when George appears. Ann hears the loud thump as he drops a duffel bag at his feet. 

“I cannot have you sullying mine and your sister’s good name. You shall marry him.” 

She looks at him, long and hard. “No. No, I don’t think I shall.” She offers lightly, a gentle smile on her face. 

*

It’s dark. It’s mid-December now, Ann reasons to herself, it got dark at 4 o’clock in the afternoon, and it was now firmly in the early hours of the morning. She had not quite expected the chill on the walk to be so very biting. Though without a shawl, it was hardly surprising. 

The air is pitch around her, though she imagines that she can see Shibden in the distance, half a moon glinting off the glass in the windows. She continues her trek, gritting her teeth against the icy wind, her knuckles,  white and painful, gripping the bag that had been forced into her hand. 

It seems like the longest walk - and she wonders how the walk had ever seemed short when she was making the journey with Anne. 

Her teeth are chattering by the time she finally reaches the drive. She crunches across gravel and thumps on the door. Silence - she hadn’t expected much else. She thumps again, louder. In another life she is astonished at her own rudeness; banging on the door of such a fine place, so very early in the morning. 

Eventually she hears some scuffling behind the door. The wood cracks a might - a man peers through, uplight with the flicker of a candle. 

He grumbles at her, and opens the door a little more. It takes her a while to realise that he has asked her what she wants. 

“I - uhm. I-I-I-” the shivering is shaking every bone in her body. “I need to see Miss Lister.” 

“Oh, John let her in. Poor thing is freezing.” a warm voice comes from behind the man at the door. 

He pulls open the door, and lets Ann stumble past him. A maid she vaguely recognises stands to one side, and gently puts a hand on both of her shoulders, steering her towards the kitchen. She is sat down in front of the banked fire, and a blanket wrapped around her. 

She notices the movement around her, one of the servants is woken and dispatched to fetch their mistress. The kindly woman from the door sits opposite her. 

“Did you walk from Halifax, dear?” 

Ann nods. She drops the bag to the floor.

“In this weather as well.” the woman tuts. “Did you lose your shawl?” she asks, “it seems blind madness to be wondering out in this weather with nothing warmer.” 

“I lost-” she starts, and then she’s interrupted. 

“Ann?” the voice from the doorway asks. 

“Oh, I see- I- I meant the elder Miss Lister. Is Anne in?” Ann asks of Marian who is stood before her dressed in her nightgown, clutching a candle. At the sight Ann feels the tightness in her throat clasp harder. 

“Anne?” Marian asks, momentarily confused at the question. 

“Yes, I was hoping to speak to Anne. Apologies for waking you, I should have made myself clearer. I had nowhere else to go you see- and I had thought perhaps Anne might be able to help. ” Wetness starts to run down her face. 

“I thought she would have told you, Anne left for London. Nearly ten days ago now.” Marian answers, and Ann feels the ground beneath her become unstable. She sits back down heavily. 

“Oh” she thinks of that day in the church, their hands meeting ever so briefly. “She did - did tell me - well, she came to say goodbye, I think. Silly me to have forgotten. Would - I’m sorry if it’s a terrible imposition - would I be able to stay here just til the morning? And then I will be gone again.” 

Marian looks at her kindly. “Of course. Cordingly can get you some blankets. Perhaps it’s best for you to stay by the fire, at least until you are sufficiently warm again, hm?” Her voice is unexpectedly warm, and she wonders how much Anne had told her sister about their friendship, even as she drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two Chapters! In One Weekend! Yes I'm Going To Capitalise All Of The Words! Anyways, exciting times, I now have more of a shape as to where this is going, not sure the length though...
> 
> Thank you for all the kind words so far! Lovely to know people are along for the bumpy ride on this one.


	5. Chapter 5

The word kind feels inadequate when coming to describe Marian Lister. She insists, in no uncertain terms, that Ann should join the Listers at the breakfast table and ensures that her teacup is never empty whilst entertaining her with stories of Anne.

Her cheeks ache by the end of breakfast. She had been aware of the sibling animosity between Marian and Anne, but hadn’t considered the potential amusement to be gleaned from this relationship.

But event the brightness of the morning cannot fully dissipate the weight of her situation and the absence of Anne can be felt even keener for it.

Midday comes and goes and Marian makes no move to show Ann the door and see her out. When she brings it up Marian is blunt in her answer.

“It’s cold out. And I, for one, am not the type to see a dear family friend abandoned at a time of need. Now, you are very sure you aren’t able to return to Halifax?” She asks gently gliding over her casual acceptance of Ann as part of her social circle without a pause, despite the fact that they have met exactly twice and god only knows what Anne may or may not have said about her following their recent disagreements.

“I’m quite sure.” Ann admits quietly, thinking of her sister’s face red with tears and the determined angry furrow of George’s brow. The slam of the door from last night still rings in her ears. “I would be less than welcome at my sister and her husband’s now.”

Marian tuts. “Poor thing. Well, we can help in any way we can” she flusters for a sentence that has actual substance. “I have a few old dresses that I wouldn’t miss. You have relatives who might be able to help?”

Ann is ashamed to say that she hadn’t even thought about a long-term solution to her current situation until Marian suggests this.

“Of course.” She rushes, eager to reassure Marian that she wouldn’t be in her hair long.

“I’ll get you some paper and ink later today so that you can send letters, if you would like?”

Ann nods, she can feel a smile starting to break across her face. Her cousins in York would be a good first port of call for her.

“Come on.” Marian stands up from her seat opposite Ann. She can hear the Lister command in her tone, and that makes her smile even more, despite the ache of the gap of Anne. “Let’s see what we can find for you.”

Ann cannot help but feel like a charity as Marian cleans the dust from an unused trunk for Ann’s belongings. Ann quickly steps in to assist when Marian starts to empty the bag Ann had arrived with and fold the contents carefully into the new-old trunk.

Once all the items are folded away, Marian starts to dig in her own armoire. A few items come out and Ann is relieved when she sees that it is _only a few._ She is certain that she would not be able to stomach the guilt that would accompany the donation of anything more substantial.

A pair of shoes that had seen better days, a rather plain dress in a light grey check, and a petticoat. She is relieved at the sight and her guilt does not swell too large, though the modest contribution means more to Ann than she thinks she will ever be able to express adequately.

It is with rather more dignity and a few more possessions that Ann finds herself in the Lister’s carriage on the way to York. Marian is riding with her having provided some sort of excuse involving  a particular novel that could only be found in one of the larger bookshops of York.

Ann doesn’t buy it for a moment, but she is happy for the company as the carriage rattles along roads. She worries the corner of the letter from her cousins in her hands for the entire journey.

*

“Well, of course when we received  your letter we were terribly worried about you. Weren’t we terribly worried, William?” Mrs. Priestley bustles about a cramped kitchen, lifting the pot from the hook above the fire with great care before pouring tea for all four of them that are gathered around the kitchen table.

“Yes, _terribly_ worried.” Mr Priestley reassures his wife more than Ann.

“But to hear that such good friends of yours had been able to help you in such a time of need, was just a balm to our souls. I can’t tell you how relieved we were to hear that Miss Marian had been so kind as to accommodate you.” Mrs. Priestley somehow makes the sentence sound not only like she has known Marian for years rather than for a mere quarter of an hour, but also that Ann calling upon the Listers had somehow been _her_ idea. It was a miraculous feat.

Marian Lister remained politely silent as she sipped the tea from the slightly chipped cup that had been foisted into her hand by Mrs. Priestley.

“Of course, we are more than happy to have you my dear.” She continues her monologue, not to be stopped by anything, be it living, dead, or inanimate object. “It’ll be delightful to have a bit of youthful energy about the place, and I’m sure we would be able to find some gainful employment for you locally. We have many friends through the city, who would be glad to take on a young woman like yourself, or even some friends further afield! Mr. Priestley’s cousin’s brother down in london, well him and his wife have their own business and we’re often in contact with them - poor people, they just lost their son to a terrible fever. Well I imagine that means that they are looking for someone to help about the shop now - but you just say the word and we can write to see if they might know of some way that they can support you.”

Ann sits with her tea, a little shocked. The thought of leaving Halifax for York had been enough of a change. The prospect of London seems huge, daunting, impossible, and suddenly irresistible.

“Oh, Mrs. Priestley, that would be marvellous.” She laughs gently with euphoria. At the back of her soul, her sister and their gentle life in Halifax still sit undisturbed, but the prospect of London, larger and grander than life itself lures her consciousness away from that thought.

“Yes, that won’t be a problem, will it, William?” Eliza presses.

“No, not a problem.” Mr Priestley confirms, with amicable charm.

*

It’s a pleasant sort of Christmas that Ann spends with the Priestley’s. She misses her sister and her little room in Halifax, but there is a charm about the promise of newness that comes alongside the melancholy. She very resolutely makes sure that her mind does not wander to Anne.

During those dead days between Christmas and New Year Ann finds herself on board a coach that rattles and bumps unpleasantly. She cannot help but compare it to the Lister carriage. The journey is deeply inferior to the finer way she had become accustomed to in the brief periods of travel with Anne or Marian.

London is overwhelmingly _busy_ , Ann discovers quite quickly working at _Waitham & Son: Shawl & Linen Warehouse. _

The Waitham’s provide her with bed and board. Her room high above the shop is quaint but slightly gut clenching when she thinks of the poor boy who had lost his life so recently, whose place she has taken and on the wave of whose misfortune she is riding on.

The whole situation is so far from her old life that she finds herself pitching her own arm to ensure that she is truly away when the finne ladies of London society come parading through the door of the shop.

It’s mid-February, the chill in the air is almost as thick as the frost on the grass of Hyde park, when a small group of ladies cause the bell above the door to clatter and jingle. Ann looks up from the linen she is folding to greet them quickly and offer any assistance should they require it.

It is not long before she is taken up on this offer. A really quite pretty lady approaches her with a confident stride.

“I’m looking for a new shawl - or at least new fabric for a shawl. My friend, Mrs Sharpley can’t recommend the British manufacturers highly enough, though I am not fully convinced, pieces made in Europe seem so much better made, and of finer quality. Don’t you think?”

Ann is somewhat taken back. She is rarely engaged with so directly, and it is difficult to know whether Ann is being asked for her genuine thoughts or if this woman is expecting nothing more than a quick and deferential affirmation of her own opinio

Looking at the woman a bit closer it is easy to see that there is something sharper about this woman than their usual clientele.

Something finer as well. Mr Waitham was always keen for Ann to make a quick sale when and where she could, but this woman had _more_ about her - certainly of her purse, if not her intellect - that the business may benefit from a little patience.

“Oh um, well, you’re right.” Ann stumbles momentarily before finding her footing in the conversation “The cloth coming out of Spitalfields and Scotland at the moment is of substantial quality, though it’s really not matching what is currently being imported. The higher quality wares are coming from overseas.”

“Europe?” The lady asks with some confidence but enough margin to detect her own possible error.

“Some is coming from Europe,” Ann concedes gently.

“But?”  The lady anticipates Ann’s addition with a warm smile on her face.

“But” Ann agrees with an answering smile “at the moment the fabrics coming from India are far superior to anything made at home or on the continent. The quality is fine and the detailing is more often than not exquisite and thoughtfully within the confines of British tastes. Broadly speaking, the market for Indian wares is still in its earlier stages, more and more merchants are starting to pick up on the demand, so it won’t be long before the market is entirely flooded with the real things and cheaper imitations. We have a small shipment coming in at the end of the week. I’d be happy to go through some of the samples that we have and take an order, and then we can have Mr Waitham drop it to an address of your choosing the moment that the shipment arrives with us.”

“No.” The lady answers, with that warm smile still in place. Ann feels her face fall.

“No?” Ann asks crestfallen.

“No, I think it best if you deliver it, not Mr Waitham.”

This was not what Ann had expected but she was happy to oblige. “Of course.”

“Now come. Show me these samples you have.”

Which is how Ann accidentally makes an impression on Mrs Wilson, resident of Fenchurch Street, London.

Sorting through swatches of fine hand-loomed fabric, and exquisite Muslin with Mrs Wilson is a delightful task, and Ann finds they have a rather similar countenance. They playfully converse about some of the more outlandish fashions that are coming through from Paris that they expect to weather no more than a single winter before being declared utterly unfashionable.

Once a decision had finally been Mrs Wilson passes Ann a card with loopy writing declaring her name and address. Ann takes the card with a polite thanks and starts to write up an order note at the counter whilst her customer proceeds to pull her gloves back on.

“Come, you must tell me how you came to be so knowledgeable in international trade. I would wager that not many shop girls would be able to discuss current trends across the continent and beyond, even if they had paid attention to the wares entering their own shop, which I find is a rarity these days.” She smiles at her own comment, as if someone had just shared a secret joke with her.

Ann is rather thrown by the comment, it brings memories of Anne roaring back to her consciousness. The stories of India and some of her marvellous travels further than the continent. “Well, yes. I had a good friend who imparted her wisdom on me.”

“She must be a very intelligent friend.”

“She was, yes.” She’s thinking of Anne’s figure framed by wintered bracken, of kisses in Shibden’s drawing room, the Lister’s carriage.

“Oh, oh dear. I’m sorry for your loss.” Mrs Wilson offers sympathetically.

“Oh no, Miss Lister hasn’t passed.” Ann rushes out, she can feel herself flush with mortification at the faux pas. “Sorry she hasn’t - we just parted on less than favourable terms, is all.”

“Ah, that is her loss then, I sense.” This woman is surprisingly forward, straightening up out of her sympathy. “Miss Lister?” Mrs Wilson asks, and Ann has an odd gut-clenching moment where she sees perfectly the next words come from Mrs. Wilson’s mouth before they are really fully formed in the air. “Not Anne Lister of Halifax?” She asks coyly.

Ann finds that she is unable to do anything but nod lightly. A warm, strange smile graces Mrs. Wilson’s face.

“My my, It has been some time since I heard that name last.” The woman seems genuinely warmed by the thoughts that Anne’s name had conjured. Then she remembers Ann suddenly, guiltily. “Now you simply must call for me. Any person who has had the honour of capturing Miss Lister’s attention long enough to be called a friend is certainly someone I would like to get to know a little  more.” She looks Ann up and down, “And you are certainly a far cry from her usual flavour. I look forward to you calling with my new shawl.”

The little bell jingles as Mrs. Wilson leaves the small shop. Ann finishes writing up the order note, folding it very carefully down the centre as she wonders what on earth had just occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back and we’re back on track. Hopefully real life won’t get in the way as much over the next few weeks!


	6. Chapter 6

_1823_

When, a week later, Ann pulls on the bell for the residence of Mrs Wilson - her new shawl wrapped delicately and tucked under her arm - it is with butterflies dancing gently in her stomach. 

The woman had been enigmatic and daunting, but also blindingly bright and simply good fun.

Ann is announced and ushered into a drawing room, where Mrs Wilson is already striding towards her. She presses a kiss to each of Ann’s cheek’s quickly and casually in the European manner and then swiftly lifts the parcel from her arm without a word. She starts to untie the string and walks towards the windows to get better light, pulling the garment from the tissue and dropping the box to the floor without a care. She lifts the shawl up to admire the fine craftsmanship and the way the light flicked through the fibers. 

It is all such a quick and an odd sort of quasi-greeting that Ann simultaneously forgets both her nerves and her manners. 

“Mrs. Wilson, how do you know Miss Lister?” The question bubbles up quickly with confidence, though Ann is not truly conscious of any thought process that occurred to reach such a point. 

Mrs Wilson lets out a well rounded laugh, pulling the shawl to her body, clutching at the fabric with some childlike carelessness, and turning to look at Ann. 

“My, you are a curious creature.” 

Ann bristles at that some at the comment. A pause passes between them, Ann is unsure whether it is her turn to speak. She is saved from any further embarrassment.  

“And please, call me Mary. There is not so many years between us, I do not think. Come, sit. I’ve called for some tea.” Mrs Wilson - Mary - beckons her across to a beautifully upholstered bench, whilst she bends to retrieve the fallen tissue that had protected the shawl. 

Once seated Ann expects an answer to her question but Mary is not forthcoming with any, instead she busies herself with the task of tucking the shawl away safely and securely back in the tissue and placing it beside her on the seat.

“Beautiful. Really exquisite.” Mary declares finally, patting the parcel with a gentle rustle. A knock on the door sounds and she calls a gentle yes towards the sound. “Ah, wonderful. Thank you Graham.” 

The tea set barely touches the table before she’s standing over it and pouring into two fine china cups. She passes one with a saucer to Ann and then retakes her place on the seat. The door thumps gently behind Graham. 

Ann sips at the tea, despite the too hot temperature. 

“Well, then.” Mary considers for a moment the subject at hand. “Miss Lister.” With a jolt Ann realises how rude she had been not even asking after her hostesses health or general well-being. 

“Oh, sorry. I don’t mean - well, I meant how. - Have you been well?” Ann tries to recover some dignity. Mary lets out that full-yet-gentle laugh. 

“You’re very sweet. Manners do tend to allude all of us sometimes, do they not? I think we all ought to be more forgiving in general for little slip ups.” She sips at her tea. “I’m quite well my dear, thank you” she answers Ann’s question with a glib little smile. 

“I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended, or brought up something that you would rather remain buried.” Buried is the wrong word Ann knows, but she can’t seem to locate the correct one. Buried implied something illicit and forbidden, something entirely plausible given their topic of conversation, but not something that Ann wished to draw attention to. 

“Rubbish.” The older woman declares “Nothing buried, just thoughts that haven’t seen the light of day for rather a long time.” Ann takes some tea for something to do with her hands. “I met Miss Lister at a soirée, one of Lady Stuart’s if I’m remembering correctly, a delightful evening. She introduced me to a few friends of hers. Lovely people too. It must have been - I must have been about your age, perhaps a little younger - about seven years ago. This was before I was married, of course.” And there was that glib smile again. 

 _Of course,_ she had said. Like it was a given that she must have been unattached to even contemplate conversing with Miss Lister. Ann was not so dim that she didn’t know what such a comment amounted to, and she tried to stifle some of the fire that roared in her ears and under her skin at the thought of Anne like _that_ with _this_ woman. 

It was so long ago. Ann felt a little relief mixed in with disappointment.

“You haven’t seen her recently?” Ann wants to be certain. 

“Heavens, no. I imagine she is still in Halifax, is she not? When I knew her she only rarely forayed to London.”

“She is a - a bit more of a traveller now. She’s on the continent currently.” Ann offers drinking her tea.

“You know rather a lot for someone who parted less than amicably.” She observes casually. 

“Oh, Urm.” Ann stumbles. “We did not part well, but I-I.” Ann looks to Mary, to see that she is looking at her intensely. She had thought perhaps that the woman might offer assistance or a reprieve from the question if she struggled suitably, but no such help is forthcoming. “I - well, I still have very fond, very warm, feelings for Miss Lister.” It feels too much, too revealing, to say out loud, but Mary is smiling at her with encouragement. 

“You are a brave woman Miss Walker.” She says quietly, perhaps with an echo of regret hiding amidst the shadow of her words. “Very brave. I sincerely hope that the years do not attempt to snatch that bravery from you.” She speaks as if from experience. 

Ann lifts a biscuit from the tray and nibbles at it for something to do. She spies a backgammon set on the sideboard, and smiles to herself. 

“Do you play, Mary?” She asks nodding towards it. 

 

*

Ann and Mary become quick friends and - thankfully - the Waithams allow the occasional absence for the purpose of Ann drumming up good business in a new and innovative way. 

To Ann’s surprise Mary is quick to introduce her to her own social circle. Keen, perhaps, to show off a friend who, despite her young age and lower status, could hold the conversation in the palm of her hand. 

Ann makes no secret about her origins to the new company that she finds herself in, a far cry away from a smokey lodging house and the. It would not do to be caught out in dishonesty, and whilst the first time she raises the subject of her status the comment had passed her lips into a frosty atmosphere at tea with Mary and a few of her friends, Mary’s gently encouraging smile tells her that she has made the right choice in divulging some of her past life to these women who sit in the lap of luxury. 

Rather than attempting to rise to their level, Ann endeavors  - and succeeds - in bringing these women _down_ to her own. She teaches them card games and occasionally vulgar insults, and although Ann feels at some points that she might simply be there for entertainment's sake - a dancing ape for their own amusements - those moments where swiftly becoming fewer and further between. Mary’s invitations always feel sincere, and this sincerity eventually seeps into the consciousness of even her most skeptical of friends. 

 

*

One evening Ann and Mary are passing away hours with a simple card game. The hour is drawing late, far later than Ann would really prefer to be out. 

“Do you only own the two dresses?” Mary asks with a lightness in her voice. There’s no judgement but she doesn’t look up from her cards. 

Ann fidgets slightly at the thought. This evening she’s wearing the grey check dress that Marian had donated to her. Despite her openness about her past life, she had not quite been able to bring herself to tell of the unceremonious removal from her previous home on the back of a heartbreak she had not expected. 

“Oh dear,” Mary answers her own question following a long silence. “I’ve touched a nerve.” 

“Oh no, no.” Ann rushes to reassure Mary. “It’s just, well, yes. I do only have the two dresses.” Her gaze is pulled down towards her lap not in shame or embarrassment, but simply for something to do.  

“Oh” It’s clear to Ann in that moment that Mary had not been expecting such an answer, nor had she thought that something meant in jest would pull forth this serious tone. 

So Ann finds herself explaining her circumstances, not fully - she omits the extent of her and Anne’s relationship, of course - and not for sympathy. Simply by way of setting an honest explanation before her friend, for a friend is what Mary had become. 

It is a moment of catharsis for Ann, great waves of relief wash over her at the opportunity to explain her past on her own terms, and to someone who might just have an inkling of understanding of the difficulties of staying true to oneself. But there is a niggling, lurking _something_ there as well. 

The next morning in the cool interior of the shop, parceling up a shawl for a customer, that she identifies the lurking feeling as a cool, heavy lump of melancholy sat deep in her stomach. On closer inspection it becomes apparent that the root cause of the sorrow is the ease with which Miss Anne Lister had be extricated from the story of her past as she had retold it the previous night. 

 

*

“You simply cannot wear either of those dresses to dinner.” 

“Dinner?” Ann asks, absentmindedly. To be honest, her mind had not yet even caught up with the fact that Mrs. Mary Wilson had all but waltzed into the shop on that morning in early March.  

“Yes dinner.” Mary confirms and then turns her back to Ann “Mr Waitham, you wouldn’t mind if I stole away Ann for the evening on Saturday next.” It was not a question that Mary posed to the small man carrying huge swathes of cloth, but more a statement. 

“Of course not, Mrs. Wilson.” Mr Waitham concedes quickly and sensibly, probably at the thought of any business Ann might be able to pursue. 

“Marvellous. And you won’t mind if I whisk her off this afternoon too.” Mary finishes. “I’ll be back at 1 o’clock.” she says this to Ann, before striding out of the shop. 

Mary is indeed back at 1 o’clock, and steers Ann, still tying her bonnet, out of the shop and along to a number of shops that are far too fine for Ann to even think about setting foot in had she been alone. Alongside Mary she feels reassured that she won’t be immediately removed from the premises. 

They pass an enjoyable few hours picking through fabrics and looking at styles before Ann makes the connection. She tests the waters briefly. 

“I think you would look wonderful in this colour.” She declares lifting a sort of terracotta silk. 

Mary smiles at her tightly and then breezily comments. “Firstly, don’t be ridiculous, that would not suit at all. And secondly, it really is not relevant what _I_ would look wonderful in.” 

Ann gapes at the woman. “Well, what is the purpose of being here. I am...ill-suited to this sort of expenditure.” 

Mary almost giggles at her turn of phrase. “You may be _ill-suited_ to the expenditure. But it is well within my capabilities, I assure you.” 

“You cannot seriously-”

“Hush, I can and I will. It’s really the least I can do for a friend.” Mary’s voice brooks no argument. Ann has heard the tone before, and knows not to engage. “Here this would look stunning with your fair hair.” 

Ann looks at the taffeta in her hands - bleu de france Mary had called it - and has to concede defeat. 

 

*

Dinner is a fine and intimate affair. Mary and her husband host a small number of their friends, most of whom have met Ann before, though there are still some that she needed to be introduced to. Ann is endlessly thankful for the fact that she is not the only unmarried guest. 

The evening passes well and with warm conversation and sparkling moments, illuminated by good wine and food. 

Miss Isabella Norcliffe is delightful company. She reminds Ann of Anne some, though somehow she manages to convey both softer wit and a sharper personality. It makes for a slightly dissonant experience. 

Mary introduces them to each other before all the guests take their seats at the table. Ann shuffles slightly as Mary prefaces her introduction with an acknowledgement of her own introduction to Miss Norcliffe, seven years prior at that soirée of Lady Stuart’s that she had mentioned previously, though she omits mention of Miss Lister. A common occurrence it would seem these days. 

As with most of Mary’s other friends, Ann takes to Isabelle quickly.

She’s a humorous sort of woman, and Ann notices lightly when Isabella touches her elbow to guide her across to the table when the guests are seated or when their hands meet when passing the salt cellar. 

“Pray tell, Miss Walker. Where in the country do you hail from? Your accent is certainly not native of London.” Isabella asks once they are deep into the main course. 

Ann ducks her head, oddly flushed at the very innocent question. “Urm,” she sets down her fork and dabs at her mouth lightly “I’m from Yorkshire, Halifax more specifically.” 

“Oh! What a small world!” Miss Norcliffe exclaims “I have a good friend from Halifax, though I don’t imagine your paths will have crossed, from what you were telling me earlier.” 

Ann refrains from saying anything, instead she is distracted thinking of the ease with which she had managed to explain her life to Miss Norcliffe. 

“A Miss Lister. A very good friend indeed. We do so try to keep in touch. Though I do believe she has left little Halifax recently for a jaunt to the continent. Very exciting that. Edward, you have recently returned from Lyon, Mary tells me.”

And like that the conversation moves swiftly from Ann without her needing to say a word. She looks up to see Mary engaged in the lively discussion about the delights - or lack thereof - that Lyon had on offer. Occasionally though, she catches the moment that Mary casts a look back at her, some sort of concern deep in her eyes. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The invitation is frivolous and ridiculous, and it’s been rather a long time since Isabella has been in touch with her. 

But - but - Paris’ charms were starting to wear thin. Anne had quickly acclimated herself to the new social scene in the beating heart of France, but even so she often found herself distracted by thoughts she had really rather  left behind in Halifax. 

Despite her pursuit of her passions in Paris, both carnal and academic, she had been left feeling that the entire experience had fallen rather short of satisfactory. 

She picks up the invite again reading over the words on the thick card, trying to make sense of the rather abrupt decision of Isabella’s to make an event of her birthday. 

London did not particularly appeal, but then neither did Paris, or Berlin, or anywhere else. For reasons unknown - or rather reasons known and unaddressed - Shibden seemed to appeal more than anywhere else. Though that is a preposterous thought which she brushes away quickly. The possibility of catching a glimpse of Miss Walker _a_ _vec_ husband was deeply repulsive to her. 

She folds the invite and places it back on her desk and starts to prepare for bed. It was late, travel preparations could wait until morning light.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all wonderful, patient, lovely individuals. I apologise for the delay. We're very much on the homeward stretch with this one now, hope you all enjoy.


	7. Chapter 7

_ April 1823 _

 

Anne steps into the warmth of the Norcliffe residence with confidence. It had been the best part of six months since she had last seen some of her London set and longer still for the majority of them. It was a welcoming light sort of hallway that she steps into from the cool spring night. The hum of sound is less welcoming, quickly approaching a din. 

She spies her good friend across the hallway and makes quick work of the space between them. 

“Tib!” She all but shouts, throwing her arms ahead of her in greeting fingers splayed wide. She tilts her head a smug little smile coming easily to her face. “It’s been too long.” Fondness creeps in at the sight of this woman who understands her better than most. 

Isabella turns to greet Anne, a glorious smile that lights her up. “Anne! So glad you could make it.” Her voice is rich and, as always, seems to hold a dark joke that only Tib knows. “How was Paris?” 

A hand touches Anne’s arm at the question. 

“Oh, you know, dreadfully dull and ridiculously hectic in turns.” Anne answers with as much nonchalance as she can muster. Tib laughs at the comment. 

“Really, Anne, you do make me laugh. You must be the only person in England who is  _ bored  _ in Paris.” 

She steers Anne out of the hall and towards the main swell of the sound. A great room - the dining room, Anne recognises, but now without a table - is full of bodies and gleaming moments of light. Candles catch the jewellery of fine ladies, reflecting in the silk of dresses, but the intimate light, dimmer than the hallway, hides much. Tib always excelled herself at creating dark secret corners - she delighted in it. On the surface the chatter and laughter and tinkling of glasses is sophisticated and polite, but on further inspection Anne could see the closeness of the pressed bodies, far too familiar for polite society. 

Looking away from the sight before her, Anne comes up haltingly with some sort of response. “Not bored, Tib. Never  _ bored.  _ Just….” she casts about searching for the right word, “Underwhelmed.” She finishes. 

A wide champagne glass is thrust into her hand, she grips the stem like a fragile lifeline. 

“I think underwhelmed might be even worse than bored, Anne.” Tib observes, she sips from her own glass. “Paris is meant to be bright and entirely overwhelming - Ah there you are-” she raises her voice slightly and beckons across the room to someone. “Mary, do come here.” 

Anne watches a woman winding through the crowd towards them. She has a delicate smile on her face and a warmth behind her eyes that is somehow familiar to Anne. 

“Miss Lister,” the woman greets her confidently, inclining her head slightly, and then darts forward to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. 

Anne struggles for a moment. “You have me at a disadvantage I’m afraid, Miss…?” 

Both Tib and the woman speak at the same time.

“Mrs Wilson, but please call me Mary-” 

 “ -Come now Anne, she can’t have entirely slipped your memory. Miss Vallance was certainly not easily forgettable.” 

_ Mary Vallance.  _ The name brings a flood of memories forwards - Anne, Tib, and Mary all at Lady Stuart’s one evening long ago - and a rush of warmth to Anne’s cheeks. She can see the same impish glow in her eyes, but she is older now, more refined, more lined. 

“Of course, Mary. Deepest apologies, it has been a few years.” 

Mary laughs wonderfully and places a hand on Anne’s arm. “All is forgiven, my dear. Now, a little bird told me that you have been having quite the adventures in Europe. You  _ must _ tell me all about it.” 

 

*

Ann spots Anne from a distance. She is talking to Tib and Mary, laughing with a warmth-and-champagne induced pinkness to her cheeks. 

She is certain -  _ absolutely certain - _ that Anne hadn’t seen her. 

Even if she had, it is unlikely that Anne would recognise her. A townhouse in the capital was a far cry from Halifax, and Ann had always found that there was a particular blindness associated with seeing something in a place that it did not belong. 

Ann Walker belonged in a worn shawl carrying bottles of beer to patrons at a lodging house. 

She had not felt so keenly this way for a long time. Since she has first met Anne, if she were to place a date to it. 

Ann Walker did not belong in the busy dining room of Miss Norcliffe. 

She smooths at the fabric of her dress, pushing her hands into the folds of the dress to stop her from reaching to fiddle with her hair out of nervousness or habit. Mary had insisted on lending her ladies maid to see to Ann’s hair, declaring that Ann’s usual clumsy attempts at the latests styles simply would not do at this kind of function. She had been exasperated at the time, but now seeing Anne only feet away from her she was thankful for the insistence. 

A few of Mary’s lot are standing at one end of the room - the opposite end to Tib, and Mary, and - oh lord -  _ Anne Lister.  _ Ann identifies them as a friendly group and approaches quickly, thankful for their choice of location at the far end and away from any sort of substantial light source. 

They greet Ann with warmth and then return to their tittering. It takes only moments for Ann to realise what has them all aflutter. 

“Mary said to me once that she is the most interesting, energetic person she has ever known. She looks quite ordinary to me, an odd way of dressing - a little drab - if you ask me, not what I would expect.” 

“I’ve heard she is quite close to a number of important families at the French court. Imagine that!” 

“Apparently she has returned to London because she was  _ bored  _ of Paris. Who grows  _ bored  _ of Paris?” This last was asked with some incredulity. 

“I suppose all that travelling must be tiring.” Ann offers. She thinks that it is the right thing to say, hoping that it might draw the conversation to a natural conclusion, she is evidently mistaken. 

“Tiring yes. But fascinating, wonderful, terribly exciting. I think few can say they have truly grown bored of Paris.” 

Ann looks over to where she knows Anne is standing. The room is so dim that she cannot make out the woman. “Well perhaps it was not what she expected, or maybe she went to get away from England rather than to visit France. I suppose it would get rather dull if you were only there to run away.” 

This proved to be enough of an answer that the conversation was swiftly dropped. The group turn their attention elsewhere, to the conspicuous absence of such-and-such, or the rather sadly out of fashion garb of so-and-so. 

Ann finds it easy to be carried with the conversation. She eventually finds herself passed a glass of champagne. She enjoys the pleasant warmth that it pushes through her mind and limbs. She passes a few hours that way half-listening and half wondering when Anne will find her. It was really only a matter of time. 

She drifts from the group and completes a circuit of the room hoping to find Mary for some more stimulating conversation. Out of the dining room and into the brighter light of the entrance hall - the space has cleared of most the numerous bodies that had packed it earlier in the evening - Ann is drawn to the parlour just as the grandfather clock chimes a gentle eleven. Smoke is heavy in the room, husbands and bachelors crowd around tables of cards. The room is warm and loud but the sound is friendly and familiar to Ann. Rather than the loud hum of gossip and small-talk, this is jovial competition and the occasional slam of cards or skitter of coins across a table. 

It takes Ann a few seconds to realise that she is the only woman in the room, and even less time to locate an empty seat among a group of rowdy men playing round after round of blackjack. The table falls oddly quiet when she sits, but she ignores this and devotes her energy to thrashing the group of them swiftly. 

 

*

Anne Lister had grown weary of Tib and Mary’s conversation. She leaves them to their flirting and goes in search of better company, though she is not brilliantly optimistic about her prospects in this regard.

  
From the hallway curl of smoke and laughter from men at cards is enticing. In the doorway she observes the proceedings, her eyes drawn to blond curls and blue silk on the lone woman sat with her back to the door alongside a group of men. Her head is tipped back slightly, bobbing with laughter. Anne cannot draw her eyes away from the small curl of hair that had loosened itself and draped across the smooth skin on the back of her neck and would no doubt curl down to the peek of her shoulders once it had sprung free of her hair pins entirely. 

The only lady who has deigned to impose her company on these men, and so the only lady who has grasped Anne Lister’s attention. 

An empty champagne glass on the table next to her glints in some candle light, even through the smoke, but pales in comparison to this woman’s blonde hair. 

Anne stops a rather perplexed looking butler in the hallway and relieves him of one of the uncorked bottles of champagne that he was proceeding to the dining room with. She pauses for a cigarette and a light from a gentleman at one of the tables closer to the door, and then continues on her journey towards the table with the woman, champagne bottle in hand.  

“Here, allow me.” Anne says. 

It’s an easy fluid movement. Placing her hand on the woman’s back - touching both silk and skin, her fingers twitch to catch that loose blond curl - she leans across whilst still standing and pours into the empty glass. 

The woman - young and pretty, with skin warmed in the dim light of the candles - turns her face away from Anne at the sound of her voice. 

Anne finishes pouring and thumps the bottle on the table, taking a seat and tapping ash into an ornate ashtray before returning the cigarette to her mouth. 

 

*

Ann Walker had known the exact moment that Anne Lister roared back into her life. Her warm palm is like coming home. She hadn’t realised that her memories had lost the exact cadence of her voice. 

She turns her face away instinctively, not wishing for Anne to see the nervous smile that her face cannot resist. 

 

*

In the dim light the men reshuffle the cards. She can’t look away from that blonde curl. The woman is looking just down and away from Anne. Cards land in front of them both on the table and Anne’s attention is drawn away. From the corner of her eye she watches at the woman seems to steel herself to pick up the cards. 

She looks up at the table and then towards Anne Lister. She nods gently towards the cards on the table, as if to remind Anne to collect her own hand, as if saying  _ Come on, you’re holding us up.  _ She doesn’t say that, of course. She doesn’t say anything at all for she doesn’t need to. She waits for Anne to speak instead.

“Ann?” Anne struggles to sound out the name that comes so easily to mind in the face of this woman.

“Yes?” Ann Walker replies. Anne finds herself without any follow up question, simply sheer confusion and amazement that Ann Walker was sitting in Isabella Norcliffe’s parlour playing cards. 

“I’m- um- well- what-” Anne Lister  _ never _ struggles for words, but in that moment Anne is struggling. 

She looks at Ann again and - and it really is Ann Walker, the same candle-warmed skin and bright eyes. Except that she is in London, dressed in silk and drinking champagne. 

Anne casts about at the table. These men tended to be as gossipy as their wives, Anne had always found. She can see the signs of intent listening from all around her. She stubs out the cigarette. 

“What happened to Halifax?” It seems like the safest question give the company. 

Ann looks at her with some confusion, and her lip twitches in amusement.  “I don’t know, has it gone somewhere? Last I checked it was still where I had left it. Why, have you heard something?” Ann asks conspiratorially. 

“No.” Anne clears her throat, fighting a small bubble of amusement at Ann’s reaction to her question. “I mean- You are in London?” 

The question is deliberate and careful.

“Hmmm.” Ann answers in the affirmative. She places her cards face down on the table. “Perhaps here is not the best place for it,” she considers out loud. 

Ann stands and Anne follows suit with such speed that she bangs the table with her knee. Some ridiculous part of her is worried that Ann is trying to make an escape without answering any questions, and though their previous parting had been less than ideal, Anne is loathe to allow Miss Walker to slip through her fingers at this very moment.

“Thank you gentlemen, you have been wonderful company.” Ann thanks the table and departs, Anne following quickly - silently - behind. 

There’s that curl again and now more than ever, Anne wants to touch it and tuck it back into place. She’s back in a damp grey woodland behind the church and Anne, loose braid and tatty shawl, is walking ahead of her, breaking her heart with each step that she takes. 

Except that now they are in a grand house in London, warm from good food and infectious joy.

“Perhaps a walk?” Ann suggests standing near the front door to the residence. It’s past midnight and would be black as pitch outside. 

“Perhaps a turn around the dining hall instead instead?” Anne suggests. Her companion smiles and ducks her head in assent at the sensible idea. 

 

*

Anne is relieved that there are enough people making enough noise. It takes little prompting, she finds, to entice Ann to explain  _ everything.  _

She hadn’t let herself hope, not even for a second. Even when she hadn’t seen a ring she had assumed that Ann had somehow found herself married to some young man from this London lot, and that Anne would be forced to forever face this beautiful, wonderful woman at all sorts of social occasions on the arm of a buffoon, but here she was.

But Ann was braver than she had ever given her credit for, braver than Anne even. She proved herself away from prying eyes and against expectation, for no reason other than her own sake, and Anne could find no fault in that. 

“-And I hadn’t truly known, in all honesty, how  _ wrong  _ I would feel in that moment that I saw my life mapped out for me. But you already knew that.” Ann finishes. It’s somewhat of a reluctant final statement, but Anne felt the heat of her words and the desperation that she felt in her own bones reflected in Ann at the thought of marriage to someone whom she did not love. 

The silence settled calmly around them even in the warm, dim hum of the room. They had found a seat, unoccupied - or, more likely recently vacated by those who yearned for greater privacy than the dining room offered - near a bay window, and claimed it for their own use, both sitting close together as the seat and their skirts would allow, through some unspoken agreement. It was a foreign experience for Anne, having to contend with voluminous fashion in Ann’s presence, but not one that she was entirely opposed to. 

“I had wondered-” Ann starts. 

“Yes?” Anne is too quick, cutting into a pause that doesn’t exist. 

“If perhaps,” she looks around to check if anyone might be eavesdropping, “the way that you  _ felt _ the last time we talked- well, whether you still felt that way.” 

Anne takes a breath deeply and answers quickly. “I do. Of course, I do. Very much so.” 

In the dim shadows neither of them can remove their eyes from one another. 

“Oh. Good.” Ann nods to herself, a little nod of certainty. 

“‘Good’?” Anne asks. “Anything more than just _ good _ ?”

Ann blushes and looks down to the floor. “Oh, a bit more than good yes. Perhaps we might take that walk now?” She asks. Anne yearns to reach out and turn Ann’s face towards her and into the light a little more, but she pushes the impulse down.

It is later - or earlier now - and darker outside than it was when the walk was first suggested, but the words rush from Anne easily. “Yes. Yes, I think we should.” 

 

*

It is less of a walk and more a short stroll to Anne’s carriage that idled by the corner of the street. 

The carriage is quiet and dark. They arrange themselves on the bench without a word, and the silence continues until they have pulled away and the carriage has rattled down a number of streets. 

“Come with me.” Anne says quietly into the space between them. Her voice is subdued, but it’s so vast a request that it steals Ann’s breath for a moment. 

This darkness, alone and undisturbed, feels more intimate than any other moment they have shared. In the cellar so many months ago their time had been stolen and not their own, susceptible to intrusion at any moment. Now though, the darkness and silence, and their hands - now intertwined atop the silk of Ann’s skirt -  this was all entirely their own. 

“What?” She asks, though she had heard perfectly plainly what Anne had asked. It’s some sort of shock that drives the breath from her. 

“Come with me.” Anne says, even smaller now. Her other hand is  _ there,  _ her finger tips curling into the hair at the nape of her neck, her thumb resting across Ann’s cheek. 

“Where?” Ann breathes out to the nothing-space between them, closing her eyes to the touch. She thinks that Anne means come to the rooms she has booked in a hotel not far from this part of town. 

“Anywhere,” Anne’s lips touch hers gently - it’s been too long, “ _ Everywhere. _ ” Anne’s hand that isn’t cupping her face, twines fingers with hers, moving restlessly, and tugging at the place a ring might sit. “Come with me everywhere _ ,” _ she whispers again, “always.” 

Ann’s yes is swallowed by their kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I can only apologize for the delay! You've all been so wonderfully patient and so lovely and supportive, so thank you in heaps for all the kudos and the words of encouragement that you have shared with me. It's been a lovely little jaunt through Gentleman Jack land, and I am thrilled to be wrapping up this little adventure, this one-shot gone rogue, with all the amazing readers who have joined me for the journey.


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